The Fall of Appledore
by Mr. Chaos
Summary: They say your life passes before your eyes when you die. But when you've spent your entire existence collecting the lives of others, what do you see? A look at the final moments of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Spoilers for 'His Last Vow'.


_"Let me flick your face."_

Charles sat back in his chair, a pad of yellow legal paper clutched in his left hand, his favorite Medici pen dangling from his fingers. A gift from a dying father to his son in hopes that it would be passed down to the next generation. Charles gotten it ages ago from an executive who had been ever so grateful for his... indiscretion when it came to the man's own indiscretions. The pen had long dried up but Charles had made sure to study every little centimeter of its surface so that he could happily recreate it within his mind palace. He tried not to be sentimental but even he was allowed one or two minor faults.

Tap tap tap

_Flick flick flick_

John Hamish Watson. Army Doctor. Partner to Sherlock Holmes. Blogger. Husband. Future Father. So many little titles for such an unassuming man. Oh, John Watson loved to pretend he was ordinary, that he was above and beyond the insanity that he invited in his life. But he wasn't, Charles could tell that. The man was an interesting one, one that deserved a nice file within Appledore. It was an honor, really. The ordinary were so dull and boring. Only the best and most interesting were given the privilege of a spot in his palace.

Tap tap tap

_Flick flick flick_

He could see that the blond was getting annoyed. The twitch in his jaw muscle, the narrowing of the eyes. Oh yes, Charles had seen those signs many times in his life. He always found it amusing to hear others crow about how one race or class or citizenship was better than the other. That wasn't true from his evidence. All felt anger and all felt it in similar ways. He'd proven that time and time again. There were, in truth, only three divisions of the human race: the ordinary, the interesting, and… well, him.

Charles reached over, selecting the book he'd grabbed just before he'd decided to begin his little experiment on John. He flipped through the pages, smiling slightly. The doctor wasn't crying or meekly looking down so that ruled out the first few chapters on crippled subjects. Good, good for John. Charles did find it interesting to see people crumble but it always made meetings last longer. He also hadn't lunged at Charles' throat, which meant reading over the chapters on legal blackmail and injury weren't needed either. While a good pop to his nose would have ended things quickly, and allowed Charles to look in on Dr. Strout and get another round of free corrective surgery, that would again cause delays and Charles was in the mood for a swim.

No, John Watson was taking the abuse but maintained eye contact, refusing to back down. He was thus the special kind, the third kind, the trickiest of them all. The kind that, to anyone other than Charles, would be quite dangerous.

An escalation would be needed.

_"Try and keep your eye open."_

Charles looked over the notepad, his many comments and thoughts on John Watson filling the pages. Later, after his two newest acquisitions had been spirited away and he had a moment to himself, he'd see about trimming down the notes to just that needed facts and having them printed up and placed in one of his vaults, along with all the other information, analysis, and theories he'd created about the two of them. He'd also begin plotting out his investment options and figuring out the best way to handle the doctor. Like any stock, Dr. Watson could be quite volatile if not handled properly and Charles had not gotten where he was in life by allowing investments to implode. His great grandfather Sir Richard Carlisle was famous for saying that anything could be turned to a profit... as long as you knew how to handle it.

Charles leaned back, his pen wiggling between his fingers. Having Mary Watson's husband under his thumb did not, as he led the man to believe, make things easier on him. In fact, it only made things more complex. By balancing the two of them he had actually removed any choice in destroying the two. He let Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes believe that was possible and of course it was, but to do so would be to activate mutual destruction.

_"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away from that man!"_

If he revealed the truth about Mary to the world and saw her locked away or worse then there would be nothing to keep John Watson from storming the gate and ending Charles' life. The Americans called in 'Man on Fire' and Charles knew John Watson could blaze. Those burning eyes and hard jaw were proof enough that the doctor could and would kill if the leash were removed from his neck. The same held true for Mary; murdering John would free her and allow her to swoop in and tear him asunder. She had almost done so once and Charles was not foolish enough to allow her a second chance.

Worst, removing one link in the chain would cost him all the others. Remove Mary and there would no longer be a reason for Mycroft Holmes to not find a way to destroy him. Charles knew the elder Holmes brother could do that… the man was like him, collecting his own pieces. If in his place Charles would be preparing the board, waiting for the moment when the loss of a pawn would be worth it.

No, they were perfectly balanced, all. They all stood on a great triangle balanced upon a knife-point and a step forward by any would see all plunge. Only Charles realized this, of course, and thus he was the only one to truly control the performance.

_"It's alright!" _

Charles stroked his beard, leaning back in his chair and looking over his collection. He had been telling the truth when he warned Holmes and Watson that he wasn't a bad man or a villain. This was business, pure and simple, and Charles was not interested in destroying these two men just for fun. He could do it, of course, but what would be the point? He was a collector; one didn't find stamp collectors tearing up Bolivian aero stamps upon acquiring them.

No, he'd made his point and shown both of them his strength and his skill. To push it further would be a waste of energy and a waste of flesh. He'd claimed they would feature heavily in the news but that was just an idle threat to scare them into submission. Letting this mess go public would not be wise, as it would only tarnish his collectables. He was still annoyed by that woman, Janine, for publishing those silly accounts about her and Sherlock. He'd refused to publish them himself because it did nothing to aid him or his cause. All it did was add rust and lower the value of his new toys.

He did hope she saved some of her money for a lawyer. When the story broke in three days about the photos of young boys feet being found on her computer she'd need everything she had to avoid jailtime.

Charles pushed aside that folder and went back to the one on the Holmes boys. No, there would be no story about this in the press, no breathless debate about the great detective trying to sell state secrets. That would only put the spotlight of all of them and ruin their value. An idle threat, nothing more. Once dear Mycroft Holmes got out of his whirly bird Charles and him would discuss how they would go about keeping this entire mess out of the papers. Charles would be polite and understanding and only ask for a few small favors, to be called upon at a later date, in exchange for holding his tongue.

Reaching over, Charles selected some brochures, looking over the cheery blue and green images of the tropical resort. He couldn't wait to see the Watsons faces when he informed them that he needed them to take a trip there. Oh, all of them would rack their brains, trying to figure out why he was sending them off… a secret mission? A sinister plot? Even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to figure out that Charles just wanted to send the Watsons on a vacation… they looked too pale and could use the sun.

Charles was kind like that.

He set the Watson file aside and began to look over his ledger.

Yes, this would be a fruitful day. Mary Watson neutralized by having her husband be his hostage; the same true of John in the case of Mary. Sherlock Holmes belonged to him now that the Watsons were in his grasp and Charles would be using the detective's services quite heavily in the days to come. Charles was loathe to perform his own footwork and having a great mind, though lesser than his own, working for him would be quite wonderful. Perhaps, in time, Sherlock would come to enjoy his work and understand the thrill of power it gave; Charles would of course cut him loose at that point, as there was no need for rival. The final piece, the long sought after Mycroft Holmes, would soon be in his pocket too, opening up whole avenues of pursuit as long as he played his cards right. It had always bothered him that while Mycroft was willing to let Charles do what he wanted, he wasn't secured and locked away. Today changed that.

Perhaps Charles would see fit to be playful and never call upon John and Mary again after sending them on their vacation. They had provided such wonderful prizes and thus could be rewarded. The dagger would still hang above their heads but nothing more-

_"There is a mistake you've made!"_

Charles frowned, his pen stopping mid-twitch. A mistake? Impossible. He'd done the research and studied the pressure points carefully. Like lobsters humans might appear hard but they had nice soft spots if one broke through the shell. He knew what buttons to press and how hard to press them. A ruse, and nothing more. Pity, he'd hoped Sherlock would go quietly. Still, perhaps it would be best to go over his notes one more time. He didn't have all of them, of course, those were in another vault, but no need to get them-

_"I'm a high-functioning sociopath!'_

He didn't run. He would never run, not in life and not in Appledore. That would be a sign of weakness, proof that he had been rattled. Still, Charles did walk a bit faster, leaving the comfy vault he'd settled in to jot down his notes and moving towards the one he'd designed for Sherlock Holmes. He had been focused entirely on John and Mary Watson and hadn't bothered to look through the vault since he'd begun this dance. He'd made plans to after the fact, once Holmes was in his power and belonged to him; the detective's vault would be both a prison and a receptacle for all the information Charles gathered from him and his deductions.

But now Charles wonder if he should have looked a bit more carefully at the man, thought about him and what actions he took. He'd lumped him in with his information on John Watson but now considered that this was in folly... no... no, it wasn't. Another bluff, nothing more! How many of the rich and powerful had screamed at him about their power and prestige only to whimper and cry when Charles called their bluff. Sherlock Holmes was no different. This was just another-

_"Merry Christmas!"_

Charles threw himself away from the door as it exploded outward, flying down the hall and crashing at the far end. He pulled himself up, eyes widening as flames roared from Sherlock's vault like it was the maw of an ancient dragon. The hallways trembled and Charles fell to the ground as it scorched the walls and blackened the ceiling. The fiery blast seemed to his eyes to dance about the hall, flaming fingers daintily reaching out and melting through the secure doorways he'd painstakingly set up, searing through them and seeping into the vaults. Charles screamed has years of carefully gathered knowledge were burned away, lost in a torrent of flames. The newspaperman moved to stop the destruction but the burning effigy merely continued on its merry pursuit and Charles felt, for the first time in a long time, fear.

Now he ran.

He dove through an open door, snatching random books, seeing glimpses of those whose lives were trapped there. His heart raced and his throat went dry as he yanked open a door, hoping to make it downstairs to the lower vaults that contained older information. The upper floors might be lost but down below there would be something-

He never got to place his foot upon a step, for blocking his way was a great lead wrecking ball that casually knocked him aside, sending Charles crashing into a bookshelf. Forward momentum drove the ball into the walls of the vault and caused Appledore to tremble. Each strike sent books and notes and binders and folders and cabinets and all other manner of storage devices come toppling down. The busts and souvenirs from previous collectables were dashed to bits and to Charles' horror he found that he could no longer remember what they resembled when fully assembled. One wall tumbled down just inches from him, shattering into tiny bone-white fragments. The wrecking ball flew towards him and Charles looked up, his glasses askew and eyes wide with panic.

The ball's speed slowed until it finally, lightly, touched his check, no more forceful than a flick of a finger. Still, it was enough to send Charles fly into a wall, knocking him senseless.

When he managed to open his eyes again Charles found Appledore in ruins. He sat in the rubble of his great palace, a dark sky with no moon or stars hanging above his head. The fires had died down and the rumblings had stopped but Charles still felt fear. It was the same primal emotions the ancestors of man had felt when fleeing from a hungry lion, knowing that death was near and closing in. He tried to dig through the rubble but found that anything he touched seemed to crumble in his fingers. He smelled lilacs and tasted applesauce.

The great wave came without warning, ruby red and pungent. Charles gagged as he was caught in the storm surge, limbs failing as he fought the current. The waters were made of ichor and Charles' attempt to suck in deep breaths only caused more of the sticky crimson fluid to roll down his throat and coat his lungs. The remains of Appledore bobbed around him like flotsam and jetsam, just within reach but never close enough for him to lay a finger on. The churning sea was like an acid, burning them away and dissolving them until they were nothing more than specks in the great red ocean. The taste of applesauce was gone but now he swore he heard circus music.

His head went under and he kicked and paddled, wondering numbly why it was so difficult to swim through the ruby-red waters. On his tongue he could taste salt and metal and when he finally broke to the surface he coughed and heaved in an attempt to clear his lungs.

The waters grew calm but still his struggles did not lessen, for it seemed to Charles that the waves were freezing over and he was trapped in a bloody pudding that held him tight. He rolled onto his back and let out a ragged gasp, his itchy, burning eyes looking up at the dark sky. No more lilacs, no more circus music. It must have been cold, for every breath he took came out like vapor. The wisps drew in his attention and Charles stared at them, fascinated as the flimsy clouds began to take on shapes. Here was a man, here a house, there a pen...

Dread replaced uneasy calm as Charles watched the vapors become more detailed, realizing that they were figments from his own life given form. More and more of them gathered above his head and with each one his breathing became more rapid and thus created more shapes and memories. They were of victories and of lessons and of things he never told a soul, not even himself. Charles tried to reach up, tried to grab at them, only to find his arms stuck in the ichor that now held him.

A cold wind from the east blew in and Charles screamed as the vapors were torn to shreds and scatters across the horizon. He tried to cling to them, tried to gather them to him and hold them to his chest but he could not fight the pull of the ocean and was thus left trapped to watch as one after another was destroyed. His forehead hurt.

This couldn't be happening! He knew it couldn't be happening! No one, no thing could penetrate his mindpalace, his grand App... App... his mind palace. It was protected, it was safe, his mind… mind... whatever it was. He... he'd seen to that... he... he had… what had he… who… no… no, he… he…not like this… not suppose… to happen. This wasn't… what… what was… who… who… how… Sher… Sher?... how did… he was… Charles... Charles something... Char... C...C...C...C..

**_"I'd like to think that the last thing that went through his head, other than that bullet, was to wonder how the hell (he) ever got the best of him." –Red, 'The Shawshank Redemption'_**


End file.
